


The Broken Children

by Nightmare_Prince



Series: The Price for Our Sins [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alexithymia, Anorexia, Bulimia, Cannibalism, Character Death, Cousin Incest, Cutting, Drabble Collection, Drug Use, Dystopia, F/M, Implied Relationships, Insanity, M/M, Masochism, Miscarriage, Past Torture, Psychological Torture, Sadism, Schizophrenia, Werewolves, greyscale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-05 07:25:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 11,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4171101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightmare_Prince/pseuds/Nightmare_Prince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was their parents who had fought a war, but it was they who bore the scars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. -Albus-

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I finally joined AO3 and my first order of business is to cross post some of my works over from Fanfiction. (You can find me there at this address: https://www.fanfiction.net/u/2749313/Nightmare-Prince) The Broken Children is a series of 17 drabbles, each told from the POV of a different member of the Next-Gen as they live in a Dystopian Future.

His cell is tiny. 

Four walls and a steel door, a window barely large enough for him to push an arm through, that’s all he has left of his world. There’s a bed in the corner, mattress worn thin as parchment, blankets threadbare and full of holes. Apart from the toilet across from the bed, his cell is devoid of any other furnishings. 

He sits against the wall, matted black hair clinging to the sides of his face as he smirks, barefoot and clad in prison grey, at the door, his green eyes glinting at the man peering through the bars. 

“Come to visit, Father,” he cackles, his fingernails – long and cracked – tap a steady rhythm across the dank floor. His father whimpers, a sound of pity and grief, something he just doesn’t want to hear from the old fool anymore.

There’s a light creak as the door opens and Harry enters, hair streaked with grey and face lined with years of anguish, holding a battered thin tray. A lukewarm bowl of filmy stew is set upon the tray beside a hunk of granite-hard bread and a dented cup of tepid water. It’s a veritable feast as far as he’s concerned and he wonders, absurdly, if his status as a Potter is still winning him favours. 

Or perhaps it’s just that his dear old daddy is visiting that has led his gaolers to sending him a proper meal for once, rather than their usual piss-poor fare. 

“Your mother wanted to come,” sighs Harry, placing the tray upon the floor and sinking down onto the bed, his face the very picture of a man who has lived too long and seen too much, “But she had to take off on another hunt for your brother.”

“Is Jay-Jay still buggering Little Louis up the arse?” Albus asks in a sweet, innocent voice, his eyes wide and naive. He watches his father flinch at his words, feeling a sick pleasure at being able to hurt the man who’s the reason he’s rotting behind bars in the first place. 

“Your mother thinks they’re in Brazil,” Harry continues as if his son had never spoke, face ashen as Albus leers up at him from his place on the floor.

“You won’t find Jay-Jay unless he wants to be found.” He grins, flashing yellow teeth, speckled with bits of whatever meats been tossed into his stew.

“Your son’s begun to walk,” Harry says, raising his eyebrows, his words cutting like knives and causing him to rise, glaring through darkened emerald eyes as his father returns the gaze. Albus isn’t a Slytherin for nothing though – he can see his father quailing internally, ready to throw in the towel and run. 

“Leave Leo out of this, you old fool,” snaps Albus.

“He’s going to grow up without a father because of what you’ve become,” Harry sighs, “Do you regret it? Do you regret what you did?”

“Not in the slightest,” he replies, his words doing more damage to his father’s crumbling facade of indifference than any physical attack could have. Harry rises, gathering his robes around him as he strides towards the door and locks it behind him. 

“I am what the world made me,” laughs Albus as his father departs, cackling at the darkness that fills his cell.


	2. -Hugo-

There’s a plate of food set before him, steaming and piled high with all his favourites, causing his mouth to water at the tantalising aroma which invades his nostrils. Despite this, he picks at his meal, nibbling at a slice of carrot and trying to avoid the hawk-like gaze of his mother. Across the table, his father doesn’t seem to care, choosing instead to stare at his paper whilst devouring his chicken drumsticks, gnawing at the bones like a starving animal. 

It disgusts him, the way in which his family sometimes eats, especially the men. His mum eats daintily, taking elegant bites and seeming to savour each bite as if it is to be her last. Judging by the amount of food she’s eating, slowly though, as if to deceive herself, she’s like to die soon anyway. 

He’ll live though – he’s not fat like they are. 

It’s strange that everyone else comments that his mother is a rare beauty, telling her that she’s grown into her crooked teeth and bushy hair. She isn’t beautiful, not to him, she’s just fat and lazy like the rest of them. 

“May I be excused?” he asks primly, once his carrot slice is done with and he’s vanished all he could without making his mother suspicious. 

“You’ve hardly eaten,” murmurs Hermione, shaking her head at the half-full plate before him. 

“I swear, you never bothered Rose half as much as you bother me,” he mumbles under his breath, and of course, both his parents hear him. He’s forgotten – he forgets a lot of things these days – that his sister is a taboo topic in their household. 

There’s a sound of glass shattering as his father’s cup breaks in his burly hands. His mother squeaks and hides her face, but then they surprise him by sharing a glance and shaking their heads. Perhaps, after all these years, they’ve finally stopped deluding themselves that Rose is just troubled and misunderstood. 

She’s a freaking psychopath is what she is. 

Hugo scoffs as he leaves the table, barely able to stand on his own two feet as his world swims around him. It doesn’t matter . . . he’s beautiful, or halfway there at any rate. If only he could be just a little thinner then perhaps he’ll finally be perfect. 

He feels tired, so he decides to call it an early night. Maybe if he rests early tonight he can get up earlier to go for his morning run – he’s halfway there and he just needs to lose a few more pounds to be perfect. 

Stopping in the bathroom to shower, he strips off and glares at his reflection in the mirror. When did he get so large? It must be the carrots he’s just eaten. 

(He doesn’t see the ribs jutting out from his chest, skin stretched thin as parchment or the way his spine ran like a ridge along his back)

Flicking his wand at the door to make sure it’s locked, he shoves his toothbrush down his throat as far back as it can go. He gags . . . and then he does it again . . . and again . . . and again until he’s bent over the toilet, splattering the porcelain with a runny mixture of orange and red. 

Strange, he doesn’t remember eating anything that with give off such a crimson hue. 

Shrugging it off, he gargles with some minty mouthwash to get rid of the bitter taste of bile upon his tongue before slipping into his pyjamas and hurrying off to bed, his head throbbing and his chest heaving for breath. 

It’s just because he’s fat and quite out-of-shape, he reasons as he pulls the blankets to his chin, shivering despite the unseasonable warmth of the night. 

(He closes his eyes and drifts to sleep, never hearing his mother slide against the other side of his bedroom door with her head between her knees, whispering:

“Where did we go wrong?”)


	3. -Molly-

She’s an artist who only uses red, her paintbrush is a razor, her canvas is her wrist.

The scars cover her arms from palm to elbow, forming a tapestry of perfectly parallel cuts, some white with age and others, the most recent, pink and sensitive beneath her tracing fingertips. It’s a work of beauty, she thinks, a single fragment of perfection upon a body of imperfection.

She hates herself for being so weak . . . but loves herself for finding such sweet release.

The first cut was accidental, a slip of a scissor. There’s no mistaking her purpose now though, she’s grown since then, and her blades are like extensions of her own hand. To take them away now would be akin to ripping out her spine and asking her to stand tall.

A low hiss of pain escapes her lips as her nail prods open a barely-healed cut, fresh teardrops of red blossoming across the filigreed skin but she takes it, a smile spreading across her face because it feels so good to release the anguish that is the only constant in her ever-shifting reality. She longs for a deep sleep, one that she will never wake from . . . but she is too afraid to truly make her dreams come true.

It isn’t as though she has ever been known for her bravery anyway, she’s the one whose always been the first to cower. What more can the world expect from a traitor’s daughter? They mock her at every turn, using the fact that her father had betrayed his family during the last war as leverage against her. For years, she’s had to deal with their teasing, the vindictive comments gradually wearing her down till she was little less than a sack of meat and bone, devoid of spirit.

A dementor could kiss her now and find no sustenance.

She’s too hollow, after all.

Closing her eyes, she lets her fingers close upon the tiny shard of metal and in one perfectly executed stroke, she runs it along her wrist, cutting through the skin like a hot knife through butter. Her heart bounds as the ecstasy overwhelms her, filling her with a sense of pure bliss and comfort as the slender rivulets of blood run down her arm and pool across the white tiles.

“Molly! Are you in there?” he mother’s voice filters through the crack between the doorframe and the door, and it’s followed by a hasty thudding against the door.

“Molly? Molly! Open the door before I blast it down!” shrieks Audrey.

She doesn’t move an inch, instead choosing to stare at the ruptured vein, realising that she’s hit one that isn’t going to clot on its own. A sigh escapes her lips . . . maybe now that she’s gone just a little too far, she’ll be able to atone for proving the world right. After all, she did support her cousin in his rebellion against the Ministry, just like her family-disowning father before her.

 

_The price for her sins._


	4. -Louis-

He cries out, half in pleasure and half in pain as he writhes beneath James, nails clawing bloody scratches down the older boy’s back as James nips at his lips. 

It hurts . . . but he needs to feel pain in the same way that James needs to inflict it. In that regard, they’re the perfect match, him pulling and his lover pushing, so that neither can break in the middle.

He thrusts out a hand as he reaches his release, knocking over a lamp and a bottle of rum, the shatter of glass not seeming to faze him as he feels James collapse against him, breathing raggedly as the first rays of dawn peek in through their window. 

Rio de Janeiro, a city where the partying never stops, has been their home for nearly three years now. It’s a nice place to live in, even though it lacks the comforts of his grandmother’s cooking and his cousin’s mischief. It doesn’t matter though; they don’t have to hide here.

They aren’t Louis Weasley and James Potter here; they’re Pierre and Sirius Delacour and they walk hand-in-hand down the street and kiss in the rain without someone trying to tear them apart. It’s strange in a way, considering they’re cousins and that there’s a five year age-gap between them . . . but he’s been in love with Jamie for as long as he can remember.

He’s not broken – in fact; he’s never needed fixing . . . he’s just a guy who found a love that society couldn’t accept. 

“Do you miss home?”

James voice is soft against his ear, his fingers softer as they ghost across his chest and Louis smiles, shaking his head as he tilts his head to press his lips against his husband’s. It’s a tender kiss, but they know what the other likes, him opening his mouth and James slipping in his tongue, his lips bruising under the steadily growing intensity, his slender body protesting and the arms around him tighten uncomfortably. 

When finally they break apart he whispers, “You are my home.”


	5. Lily

She smiles at him as he walks into the ward, a faint vestige of colour returning to her face as she recognises him, even though she's forgotten his name. He's important to her though. That much she does know, despite her not being able to place why it is that his presence holds so much value to her fragmented mind.

"Hey, Lily," he says softly, reaching out to stroke her cheek, causing her to preen slightly under the attention. She doesn't get many visitors; it hurts mummy and daddy too much to see her like this so they stay away for the most part. It’s lonely though, with only the healers for company, especially since she lacks the abilities to entertain herself anymore.

It isn't that her mind is broken; it’s that most of it has shut down and only a spark remains, the treble of light that lets her exist in her own simple way. She gifts him with a toothy grin and sticks her tongue out, the tip poking at his fingers and causing him to chuckle sadly at her in response.

"Orion said his first word today," he sighs, stroking her arm as she stares at him in confusion. Who is Orion? The name sounds familiar ... but she cannot quite put a face to the name. Maybe if she sees him, she'll recognise him.

"I know you're proud of him even if you can't say it," the man adds, white-blond hair framing his pale face, making her reach out to pull at it, just a little.

 "I'm going to make sure he grows up to know that his mother was the bravest woman in the world and that she stood up for what she believed in no matter what," he continues, tears glimmering in his haunted grey eyes as he nods at her. She doesn't understand.

"I ... Lily, I don't know if you can hear me anymore -" She interrupts by nodding fervently and pointing at her ears, then shaking her head so fast that it’s like to fall off. Hearing him isn't the problem... she just doesn't know what it is that she's hearing. Why can't he, this man who she associates with comfort, not just sit with her and maybe play a game of cards. It’s awfully fun to scrunch them up and throw at the healers, at any rate.

"They're going to give Rose the kiss," he finally says, and Lily feels a burning rage within her for some strange reason when she hears that name. "They're going to take her soul for what she did to you." Lily nods, because that does sound agreeable... Not that she comprehends what he's talking about. He's just speaking in such a passionate tone that she can't help but nod along.

The door creaks open, but she doesn’t hear, content to feel the blond man’s face and nod every so often as he speaks, trying to discern what he’s telling her.

"Scorpius, we've got to go," comes a voice from the doorway and Lily turns to see another blond man, a spitting image - if older - than the man sitting on the bed beside her. Then she sees it and her heart breaks because she can't remember him, even though he just over a year old and clinging to the old man's leg, peeking out to look at her through widened eyes.

Lily rushes forward, stopping only to dig into her bedside drawer for a few minutes falling to her knees beside the child. Her wispy red hair flutters around her, pale face almost ghostly in the harsh light but she holds out her hand and presses something into his hand. The man on the bed is crying, the elder is shaking his head sadly whilst she beams at the boy, who simply looks down in confusion to the single bubblegum wrapper she's pressed into his hand.

It’s all she has left to give him, after all


	6. -Victoire-

As usual, the flat stinks of liquor.

"You're tripping again, aren't you?" she snaps, her voice harsh, a contrast to the mellow look in his lazy eyes, their colour constantly shifting to reflect his drug-addled state.

"Just a few drops, Vicky," he slurs, staggering to his feet and knocking over a few empty bottles of Firewhiskey on his way up. He grins lazily before loping towards her, stumbling as he struggles to maintain his balance. She hates that nickname . . . and what's worse is that he knows she loathes it with a burning passion.

She cringes away as he reaches for her cheek, wondering why his touch, which had once been her greatest source of comfort, is now enough to cause bile to fill her throat. She backs away, quivering with rage as he tries once again to caress her, long fingers skimming thin air as they miss her face by inches.

"I can't keep doing this, Edward!" she barks, and he recoils at the use of his true name. Nobody calls him that, least of all her. To her he's always been Teddy . . . or when she's cross, it's Ted. Right now though, she's absolutely livid.

"You weren't the only one who lost someone!"

She never expects what comes next, her eyes widening as the back of his hand comes crashing down across her cheek, knocking her off balance and sending her sprawling to the ground. Tears bead in her eyes as he grabs her by the hair, dragging her across the dirty floor till they're standing beside the fireplace, not caring as her body slams against the furniture as it's yanked.

"Do you see this?" he asks, his hair a thousand colours and none at the same time, pressing her face against a photo-frame he's taken from the mantle. Her breath comes in short pants, her throat choking up as she sees the black and white picture of her son, his heart still beating in her womb.

"Where is he? Where the fuck is Remy, Vicky?" he yells, spittle spraying across her face as she trembles, heart breaking as he rubs her greatest shortcoming in her face.

"It's not my fault," she cries out.

"Well it's someone's fault! And it sure as hell isn't mine! Maybe if you weren't so busy spreading your legs for every bloke who went to Hogwarts with us and their fucking brother, then you'd have noticed that his heart wasn't beating!"

Tears sparkle across her cheeks as he throws her flaws at her – she knows she hasn't kept her vows, but then again neither has he. There was a time, long past, when she had been faithful . . . when they had been happy.

That time had died with their son, and the debauchery had begun.

"I never cheated on you till you started using again," she shrieks, fighting her way to her feet and slapping him with all the strength she could muster, her nails tearing his cheek and dotting the carpets with scarlet. He howls and shoves her, throwing her to the floor before turning on his feet and dissaparating with a crack.

Victoire Lupin staggers to her feet once he's gone, dabbing at her split lip with her sleeve as she staggers to her bedroom and locks the door behind her with every spell she knew, before falling against it and burying her head in her knees.

"We were happy once," she whispers, tears staining her skirt as wonders when it had all gone to hell.


	7. -Fred-

There's a man in the mirror and he knows his name, because he is him whilst not being him at all. He's identical to the man, with the softest differences . . . where one's eyes are cold the other's are warm and where the other wears a sneer, he's always smiling.

The only thing is that he's never sure who lives in the mirror and who chooses to live in him. It's interchangeable, sometimes he's stronger and sometimes he loses control, giving over his control to the man who has his face but not his soul.

Or maybe they share the same soul, and are but two fragments of the same being.

He can never be sure.

"Hey," a wan voice catches his attention and he turns, eyes clouding with consternation as he tries to recognise the woman in the doorway. She's the woman who married his nephew . . . or is she the lady he wed? Suddenly, he doesn't recognise her at all.

"It's time for dinner, Fred," she smiles but he can see that it's forced. Somehow, it doesn't bother him as much as it should, he knows her name even if he can't remember if she belongs to him or his mirror-image.

Olivia.

"Brilliant, Livvy," he smiles his Cheshire grin and follows her to the dining table downstairs, eyes flickering over the many pictures that fill their home, feeling pangs of familiarity in some whilst forgetting others. As usual, he isn't sure who he is.

He hasn't been sure since the curse.

There's a roast leg of lamb on the table, and the aroma wafts into his nostrils and causes his mouth to water. It's his favourite . . . he thinks, and it's got the perfect sides of roast potatoes and steamed veggies. Across the table though, are two children who he knows belong to him and not to the man in the mirror who sometimes escapes into him.

A lanky boy, fresh out of toddlerhood and a little girl with a round face – Bartido and Amoretta . . .his children. They are his.

Dinner is calm, for once, and there's laughs and giggles as he entertains them, basking slightly in his ability to retain his sense of self for once. His wife smiles fondly, a mountain of stress and strain melting of her face as for a rare moment, they're a regular family enjoying their dinner.

Then the floo roars to life and out steps a woman, dark-skinned and long legged, well into her middle-years and he meets her eyes. Before he can stop himself, he feels himself slip, no matter how hard he tries to hold on.

The man in the mirror takes control, letting _his_ true reality slip through his fingers like drops of dew.

"Angie?" he mutters in confusion, "What are you doing here? Why do you look so grown?"

Just like that, Olivia's smile falls away and Angelina adopts a crestfallen expression that speaks volumes. The children look on in confusion, unsure of what to do, till Olivia gestures at Bartido to lead his sister to their room.

"Lock the door," she whispers, and Bartido nods because he's just six, but he's well-versed in his father's shattered mental state.

"Fred," says Olivia when the children are gone, and he whips around, his eyes hardening as he sees her.

"Who are you!" he all but yells, "Why are you in my home? Why is Angie here?"

"Fred!" Angelina grabs him and forces him to look at her, "This isn't you. You died over thirty-five years ago. You need to let go. This isn't your body!" Her voice quavers as she speaks but after all this time; she's learned how to handle her son in his _moments._

"This is some Death Eater trick!" he declares, pushing her away and backing away towards the wall, hands shivering as he draws his wand. Olivia pales, she doesn't know how he's gotten hold of a wand this time . . . She usually has his locked away in the safe as it isn't safe for him to have access to it given his _condition._

"You were killed during the Battle of Hogwarts," says Angelina, tears sparkling in her eyes, "You died. This is my son's body. My son with George. You can't keep possessing it. You. Need. To. Let. Go!"

"I don't believe you! You're working for He Who Must Not Be Named, aren't you? Traitor!" Fred barks, red sparks dancing from the tip of his wand.

Olivia exchanges a glance with her mother-in-law and nods once before flicking her wand, stunning her husband before he can react. He crumples, but she rushes forward to catch him as he falls and forces a foul-smelling green potion down his throat before moving him, with Angelina's aid, to the couch.

"It's getting worse," murmurs Angelina, lips trembling as she wipes her lace handkerchief across her son's sweaty brow.

"They come and go," whimpers Olivia, "I just wish that they would stay gone."

"George spent almost forty years wishing Fred was still with us . . ." she replies, biting her lip to keep from bursting into tears, "But not like this. Not like this."

"I want her dead for doing this to my husband, Angelina," mutters Olivia, "She took him from me. She cursed him to host two souls instead of just his own. She destroyed my family. Bartido is terrified of being alone with his own father. Amoretta knows something is wrong. If I ever get my hands on Dominique Weasley, I will kill her without even blinking."

Angelina stares at her daughter-in-law following the younger Weasley bride's declaration. Then she shakes her head and lays her hand on her shoulder.

"No, Olivia, as his mother . . . that honour belongs to me."


	8. -Lysander-

She chokes, gasping for breath as he tightens his grasp on her throat, kicking out faintly as he lifts her against the wall. Her fingers claw at his lean arms, nails leaving red and pink lines from elbow to wrist as he glares at her, leaning in to press his lips against hers. As her mouth opens to his tongue, he releases his hold on her neck and she gasps, struggling to draw breathe until at last, he blows a stream of air into her mouth. Eyes watering, she smiles thankfully as they break apart, and then pushes Lysander to the ground.

He stumbles, a grin spreading across his face as she rubs at her sore throat and breathes in ragged pants, bruises already forming across her caramel skin. He links his fingers behind his head and rests his dirty-blond hair on his palms, smirking as Roxanne snarls and drops down to straddle his bare chest.

"I hate you," she mutters, letting her long nails dig into his chest, delighting in the groans of pain she's able to illicit.

"I love that you hate me," he chuckles, wincing as she digs in deeper, the manicured nail of her right index finger breaking the skin and drawing a droplet of blood.

"It's what keeps you coming back for more," he continues, grabbing onto her waist with all his strength, causing her to throw back her head in pain . . . and perhaps a little bit of pleasure.

"Maybe I'm just a masochist," she replies, drawing her bloodied hand up to his throat and pressing down on his adams-apple. Now it's his turn to fight for breath, and maybe he could have fought her off or shoved her off him, but she's chosen just that moment to reach behind her back and painfully squeeze his bollocks.

"You give as good as you get," he gasps, his voice torn from his throat as her hands slowly increase the pressure. Maybe he's a sadist and a masochist, or a strange mix of the two, because he loves the pain, both the receiving and the inflicting. It's a way of coping with the messed up world they live in, hurting each other so that others can't.

His mother sometimes looks at him and shakes her head at the scratch-marks and the bruises, inwardly cringing at the sight of black-eyes and broken dreams. He's seen her mother look at her the same way - and it's not that they haven't tried to help, to try and make them happy and normal again. It's just that everyone is too tired to try and change.

At least, that's how he feels. . .

It's like he's dead or missing a part of him that shouldn't be lost. The only time he feels anything, when he feels alive, is when Roxanne is hurting him or when he's hurting her. It's - they're - broken and twisted and horrific, but it's the only thing that keeps them tethered. So he moans as his lover slaps him across the face, just as he fists his hands in her hair and yanks so that she slams to the floor, effortlessly wrapping her legs around him as she falls so that he's on top.

As he sees her lying beneath him, wincing from the pain he's inflicted, he feels a sense of disquiet. It's unusual – this is their way, it has been their relationship ever since the lines were drawn and the two of them had stood against Albus and the rebels. In their shared misery of both losing their brothers, one to a curse and one to the shadow, this simple expression of sadistic love was what kept them afloat.

"What happened to us?" he asks, as he feels her pull at his hair as harshly as he thinks she can, "We weren't always like this, Roxy."

Maybe it's the use of her nickname that triggers her to drop her facade, allowing her to expose a glimmer of the shattered girl within. A tear sparkles in her eye as she whimpers, curling her free arm across his waist and pulling him down so that their noses brush.

"We fought a war and were the victors," she sighs, "but we lost more than we won."

And it's so intrinsically true that he lets his own tears splash across her cheeks, before losing himself in her nails and teeth as she yelps in pain under his bruising touch.

That night as he lies battered, she throws out an arm in his sleep and huddles into him, whispering through her dreams.

"I love you, Lysander."

He sighs and wraps his arms around her skinny frame, biting at his lips to keep from crying out at the feel of her bruise-mottled skin against his still-too-tender flesh.

"What is lost . . ." he whispers in response, pressing his lips to her temple before falling to sleep.

_(Cannot be found again)_


	9. -James-

They're home, and so sooner than he turns the key in the lock, he's slamming his lover against the sliding doors of the balcony. Louis hisses, the impact of his head against the cool glass enough to send a spider-web of tiny cracks across it. Just as quickly, he's pulling at the blond's jacket, causing the leather to rip as he yanks much too sharply.

It's nothing that a stitching charm can't replace though, so they discard it without a worry as Louis wraps his legs around his waist, nipping at his lips as clothes are torn away and they lose themselves in their need for the other. It's slick fingers, rough moans, and swollen lips, James thrusting as his cousinloverhusband writhes beneath him, slender fingers tangled through his dishevelled Potter hair.

Nearly a half-hour later, they lay sated upon the floor, bathed in the light of the moon through the balcony doors, Louis drawing lazy circles across his navel.

"Did you enjoy the carnival?" James asks, stifling a yawn as he pulls Louis against him and presses his lips to his brow. He wrinkles his nose a little as Louis answers – there's a few specks of pink still stuck in his teeth and though it's something he's grown to accept, it's something he dislikes. Courtesy of his father being savaged by Fenrir Greyback during the Second War, Louis was fond of eating his steak rare and bloody . . . a stark contrast to James who preferred his so well-done that it bordered on being charred.

It's not that bad though, the lingering rawness of the steak is all but masked by the taste of both Louis and his own seed upon his lover's tongue.

"Enough that I brought some of it back with me," grins Louis, gesturing at the discarded packet lying beside their front door. Curiously, James reaches for his wand and summons the package, wondering what Louis had brought home. He remembers seeing the blond disappearing amidst the stalls for a few minutes before returning, refusing to tell James what he had purchased all night.

He reaches into the bag and rolls his eyes as it closes around the neck of a bottle, and as he draws it he feels a rustle as a few bags of candyfloss follow it, stuck to the bottle with strips of tape. He's not sure why this would be on sale – he's never considered the combination of candyfloss and tequila before in his life . . . but Louis knows what he's doing when it comes to alcohol and sweets. When their relationship was just beginning and they both were battling to quell the emptiness within them, liquor had allowed them so much more room for happiness.

He raises an eyebrow as Louis giggles, reaching for his wand to summon a few pair of shot-glasses. It's a Friday and neither have to go into work tomorrow (or more like later today, given the time) so a few drinks aren't going to hurt anyone. Suddenly, Louis grasps his wrist and pulls it away, shaking his head as he lifts up the bottle.

"Jamie," smirks Louis, "We're not using glasses tonight." Before James can open his mouth to protest, the bottle is open and a generous serving is being poured into his navel.

"You could have warned me," pouts James, holding himself perfectly still to keep the drink from spilling off him.

"Where's the fun in that," laughed Louis, breaking off a vaguely oval piece of candyfloss and placing it above the tequila. It dissolves in seconds, and then James is throwing back his head as he feels a tongue on his torso, licking its way down to the pink shot.

It's a tornado of sensation coursing through his body as Louis drinks the shot, slurping it rather messily – but he knows that's more for his pleasure than for Louis' – before coming back up to press his lips to his.

He tastes the alcohol and the sugar, but most of all he tastes Louis and he pulls the younger man down and flips them over in one swoop before lifting the bottle.

"My turn," he says with a grin across his face.

_They've lost their house . . . but they've built a home in turn._


	10. -Dominique-

She is a fatal beauty.

Her strawberry-blonde hair falls in lustrous waves down her back, framing her delicate features and ethereal blue eyes, stark in contrast to the scars beneath her blouse, the jagged edges of which traversed her throat.

She grins, revealing teeth that are slightly pointed and oh so very sharp, the tips stained slightly pink with the blood of her meal. Delicately, she reaches up and picks out a bit of sinew, flicking it onto the carpet with nails varnished scarlet.

"Did you have to play with your food?" asks the man across from her, one leg over the other as a trail of acrid smoke leaves his parted lips. Before she can respond, he's taking another drag of the cigarette, a few flecks of ash falling across his bare chest. Like her, his torso is covered in scars – bite-marks – the wounds that show them for what they are.

"Don't you know, Lorcan?" she smirks, "That their screams are the most delicious part."

"Indeed," he agrees, his short, dirty-blond hair matted to his head. It had been his turn to hunt today and whilst capturing their prey was not as fulfilling without the full moon to guide their path with fang and claw . . . it was satisfactory all the same.

As is the meal that always, inevitably follows.

"Uncle Harry sent a few aurors searching for us," she sneers after a while, breaking the silence and causing him to look up from his own plate of barely-cooked meat (just a few seconds on the fire to char the skin and heat the juices within, so to speak)

"Admirable yet foolish," Lorcan replies, "How many has he lost in the past few months against us? I assume that they would run short of wizards soon enough."

"You speak as though we kill them," she giggles, "We just play with them, it isn't our fault that humans are just so . . . breakable."

"They are, aren't they?" he chuckles, though there's a gleam of delight in his eyes as he realises that she's captured a few new toys for them to break.

Dominique nibbles at what is left on her bone, before cracking it between her teeth and sucking out the marrow, a delicacy that cannot be matched by even her late grandmother's cooking.

"Has there been any word from the Mistress?" she asks, as she sets the bone aside, her tone bored.

"We are expected at the Manor this weekend," smirks Lorcan, "Her Ladyship intends to set the plan into motion this Saturday."

"So soon?"

"Who is there left to stop us? Your sister and her husband are much too busy killing each other, your cousins, those who stood against us, have been scattered to the four winds . . . and the Order? Let us not even speak of them . . . even my mother doesn't have the strength of will left to stand against us."

"For a werewolf, you are quite eloquent," laughs Dominique, rising from her seat and letting the wooden plate clatter to the floor before leaping across the room and landing on his lap, straddling his hips and leaning in so that their lips were millimetres apart.

"How old was she?" she smirks, licking the rivulet of blood and savoury juices from his lips as he unbuttons his ragged jeans. The fragile bones, cracked and drained of marrow, have long since fallen from his plate.

"Four, soft and tender . . .just the way you like them."

"She was tantalising, my love," she simpers, before losing herself in blood and ecstasy.


	11. -Cassiopeia-

"Mummy loves you," she whispers, pressing her lips to her son's brow before placing him in her mother's arms. He gurgles at her, fat fists reaching up to try and pull at her hair, causing her to smile wanly as she relinquishes her grasp on him.

"If I don't come back," she begins, but is interrupted by her mother.

"Do not speak of such things," says Astoria, frowning at her daughter as she bounces baby Leo upon her lap.

Cassiopeia nods once in understanding before disappearing with a crack, holding her breath to avoid the suffocating blackness of apparition. When she finally opens her eyes, she's outside St. Mungo's hospital and she thanks Merlin that the sidewalk is deserted. Time is of the essence, but breaking the Statue of Secrecy at this point in time will cause her more harm than good.

Tugging her coat around her, she enters the hospital, carrying herself with a grace that only a pureblood can possess, her eyes flicking this way and that as she takes note of the security wizards. Ignoring the heated glares of the patients and healers, she steps into the lift and begins the short journey to the fifth floor.

When the metallic doors slide open, the first thing to fly out is a jet of green light, striking the security wizard stationed upon that floor in the chest and causing him to crumple. A chorus of shrieks tear the air, but she's already slashing her wand a second time, hurling a blasting curse at the ceiling.

She wonders if the Ministry had ever suspected her of being her husband's most faithful follower . . . or if they like the rest of the world simply viewed her as another victim of his supposed madness.

The distraction is enough, and she hurries back into the lifts, hearing it creak as she descends to the third floor. She can hear the echoing thud of footsteps upon the stairwells on either side of the elevator shaft, the security wizards rushing to the floors above her in their zeal.

A soft chime and the doors slide open, but this floor is sterile and silent. She doesn't let this fool her though; she has little time as no doubt the aurors are already on their way.

Walking brusquely through the deserted corridors, she pauses only long enough to blast a door open, or kill a man who gets in her way. This night, Death itself has come to St. Mungo's wearing her skin, and she leaves a path of destruction in her wake.

Finally, she comes upon a heavily warded door and without hesitating; she tears the enchantments to pieces with the darkest of spells.

Once again she wonders if the world ever realised that half of the curses her husband had been famed for had in fact been learned from her.

She is the great-niece of Bellatrix Lestrange, and the darkness flows through her veins with more fervency that it ever did within her great-aunt. She isn't evil for the sake of being dark though, and nor does she desire power.

No, Cassiopeia Potter simply seeks a way of ascertaining that her son will not face the same trials and tribulations that she has, that his father has.

Finally the door comes crashing down and the inhabitant looks up from a roll of parchment, bright blue eyes dead and emotionless. She's come here to free this woman, one of her husband's most powerful and ruthless lieutenants . . . and she hopes that she hasn't come too late.

"Cassiopeia," intones the girl with scarlet hair, her voice dead and lacking any trace of human depth.

"Rose," she replies, "It is time to take our leave of this place."

"I see," Rose rises from her seat, "I will need a wand."

"I took the liberty of retrieving Great-Grandmother Walburga's from the vaults," Cassiopeia says as she tosses the wand through the air. Like a cat Rose catches it, before striding towards her, barefoot and clad in a hospital gown that barely reaches her knees.

"It is good to see you again, sister," Rose tells her, though Cassiopeia knows this to be a lie. Her half-sister cannot feel emotion, her mind is brilliant . . . but her logic is unbalanced by a lack of human feeling. She has never seen Rose cry, or laugh, or even smile in all her life.

It makes her one of the most vicious of their dark circle.

"Come, sister," Cassiopeia reaches out a hand, "We must rescue Albus before they know you are free."


	12. -Teddy-

He's reclining in his favourite, well-worn armchair with his feet up, boots scuffing the coffee table but as always, he just doesn't care.

It's been a while since he's been able to care about anything.

His head lolls back, eyes shimmering as they shift, first red, then blue, then green, and so on, till the entire rainbow has come and gone. Closing his eyes in an attempt to regain control, the rapid morphing easily causing his vision to blur after a time, he sticks out his tongue and lets another drop of gold run down his throat.

A searing burn marks its passage, but he bears it as he bears everything else, with gritted teeth and tears stinging at his eyes. Finger clench, knuckles whitening as he claws at the armrests . . . and then it's gone and he's floating on a cloud of lullaby.

He finds himself staring down at a scene, one that he isn't familiar with and has never seen before. There he is, tall and strong as he once was, before he had let himself waste away. The younger version of him is grinning, hair coloured a brilliant turquoise as he grabs hold of a toddler and swings the child through the air.

Laughter brims warm and light from the child's mouth, neon-green hair tousling as he bats his little arms out. Then his eyes travel to the kitchen doorway, where a beautiful blonde woman is standing in an apron with a wooden spoon in her hand and a vibrant smile on her face.

Too soon, Teddy's torn back to cold reality, the vision dissolving like granules of sugar in a cup of tea, and he groans at the pounding in his skull.

"Why?" he whimpers, clutching at his temple and looking up at the ultrasound photo above his fireplace. The tiny black and white heart beats steadily, a half-formed leg kicking out and for a moment, he allows himself to grieve.

The tears never fall though, because another drop of liquid gold in running down his throat. At least, that's what he tells himself as he's licks at the empty vial in the hopes of gleaning a single moment more of relief.

It's easier this way, after all, to lose himself in drugs and Firewhiskey, rather than face the harsh truth that is his life. His head still pounding, he rises from the armchair and, clinging to a half-empty bottle of the burning, alcoholic substance, he staggers to his room and collapses into bed.

The woman stirs, her body bruised and undoubtedly sore, but nevertheless she responds to his roughly stolen kiss. His stubble scrapes at her delicate skin, and he isn't gentle in the slightest as he takes her, but they aren't about cuddling and spooning, not anymore.

Now they're as broken as the buried remains of their miscarried son.

"I'm tired, Teddy," she sighs against his ear when they're both spent.

"So am I, Vic," he replies softly, allowing himself a moment of tenderness as he brings the bottle to his lips, bodily flinching as he curls up against him in a way that she hasn't since the miscarriage.

"Do you think we'll ever be the same?" she asks.

"No," he responds, spilling a mouthful of liquor across her breasts by accident. She cringes, but he simply holds her, setting the bottle aside and allowing himself to be honest with her for the first time in a long time.

"But we can try."


	13. -Lorcan-

He growls, causing the guards to turn in alarm, their eyes widening in fear as they see him advancing on them, barefoot and clad in ragged clothing. Streaks of blood cover his arms from claw to elbow and his chin drips with the sticky, scarlet liquid.

"Stop!" the one on the left exclaims, his wand shaking in his grasp as he trains it on him.

Lorcan grins, cocking his head to the side and baring his teeth, showing of the specks of flesh stuck between them. Slowly, yet surely, he raises his hands above his head, making the obvious gesture of surrender. Wand-arm still shaking, the Auror comes forward and grabs his wrist with his free hand, shakily clasping a metallic cuff around it.

"You smell delicious," chuckles Lorcan, and the man's face drains of colour as a scream rings through the hall, punctuated by the sound of ripping flesh and cracking bone. Then he's on his feet, fist flying out to catch his captor in the face. The Auror's nose breaks and Lorcan smirks, leaping into the air and flipping himself over the man's shoulder before dragging his cuffed hand around his throat. Like clockwork, he grasps for the other end and within seconds, he's choking the life out of the guard, the man's wand clattering to the ground.

"Fear is always the best seasoning," he giggles, running his tongue up the dying man's neck, letting it caress the shell of his hear. Gasping for breath, the Auror struggles, till finally Lorcan grows weary of playing and bites down upon the side of his throat, ripping his face away in a shower of blood and sinewy flesh.

Behind him, he can hear Dominique feasting, blood splattering the ground around her, and he laughs, low and maniacal. She's always been a messy eater; that much is sure.

"I believe I told you two not to make a mess," comments a cool, clear voice from the end of the corridor, and he looks up to see three ladies making their way towards them.

"We didn't make that much of a mess," he protests, lapping at the waterfall of blood and savouring the taste, "Besides, Domino and I like it when they piss themselves in fear."

Rolling her eyes and screwing up her nose in blatant distaste, Cassiopeia beckons to the ladies on either side of her.

"Lucy, Rose, free the prisoners and start a riot. Do whatever it takes to make sure that no Aurors get in my way. Dominique, Lorcan, with me."

Nodding, Lorcan rises and follows his Dark Mistress, just as Lucy and Rose both disappear, no questions asked, into the shadows. Pouting, Dominique gets to her feet and follows them, before asking the question that he's been avoiding.

"Where is Molly?" she asks, a frown crossing her face as they ascend the stairs to the highest floor of Azkaban.

"Dead," mutters Cassiopeia, without a shred of empathy in her voice, "She took her own life a few weeks ago."

"She was always the weakest of us," he sighs, though Dominique looks likely to argue. He shakes his head at her . . . now is not the time to bite the hand that keeps them fed. Especially since, even if they were to turn on Albus and Cassiopeia Potter, they would still be hunted like dogs by the world at large.

Even their parents and siblings would not grant them sanctuary.

With a low growl, unheard by either woman, he suppresses his emotions and lets the wolf take control once more. It's easier that way, when he doesn't feel, when he lives by instinct rather than humanity.

Before he knows it he's standing in front of a door, heavily chained and warded, but Cassiopeia is already moving her wand like a dancer's baton, elegantly undoing the charms that keep it closed. Within seconds, the lock clicks and a man stumbles out, a twisted leer spreading across his lips as he stands before them. His hair is long and scruffy, clinging to his skull, and his nails are long and yellow, filthier than a werewolf's.

"My Lord." He kneels, just as Dominique does, but Albus dismisses them with a wave and sweeps his wife into a smouldering embrace, their passionate kiss seeming oddly macabre; her pure and pale, him dark and covered in filth.

When finally The Dark Lord and his Lady break apart, Albus turns to him and laughs.

"Still alive, Lorcan, Dominique? Care to do more than just live in the shadows?"

It's the same words that Albus said to them all those years ago, when he first recruited them from their cottage in the woods, and just like then he nods and smirks, forcing down any semblance of human feeling and letting the wolf show across his features.

"No questions asked," he answers, "No lies told."


	14. -Lucy-

" _Lucy."_

She whirls on her feet, scarlet hair whipping around her freckled cheeks, but that's where the warmth ends. For her eyes are cold, chips of pale-blue ice, lost in a yellowish sea. Lips twisting into a snarl, she draws her wand, focusing the tip upon the weary woman standing against her.

A crackling hiss emits from her leg as she steps forward, her movement fluid, even though by all accounts she should be limping. The decay is growing, faster now than ever before, blackening flesh, congealing her blood, and calcifying her bone. The _Grey Fever_ , they call it, a wasting sickness, so rare that even the most skilled of Healers had forgotten its nature.

She bites her lips and advances, the first shrieks of warfare caressing her body, wafting through her clothing and finding the patches of brittle, tar-like skin beneath. Memories bite at her as she advances upon her adversary, a woman so intricately familiar that she knows her better than the back of her hand.

Remove the stains of time and disaster from her foe, and the marring hands of disease from her, and they could have been twins, save for their hair. Hers isa raging fire, deeper and more wild than her father's had ever been . . . the other woman's is soft and matronly, a soothing brunette.

She should have known that this woman would come to the Ministry's defence, with the rest of the foolish flock. Like all wars though, the lines have been drawn and the players have taken their places, to finish what they once began.

Rebellion.

Her sleeve grows sticky, a thick, amber pus oozing from her stony skin, and she gasps, stifling a shriek of pain. It has been too long since her last treatment, and the sickness is clawing at her once more. She loses all semblance of pity for the frail woman standing before her.

Now she is the predator, and this foolish woman, sweet bird that she is, is about to become her prey.

"Don't do this," pleads the woman, reaching out to her, unarmed and gentle.

" _Siphonem Vitae_ ," she replies, merciless until the end. Once, long ago, she cared, and she loved . . . but now, years later, she will simply do anything to live another day.

The woman gags, clutching at her throat as her life-energy is torn from her, fluttering embers of electric-green light ripped from her every orifice.

She soaks in it, whimpering in the bliss of revitalisation, feeling swollen with its purity as she's healed. Her blood thins, losing its greenish tinge, just as her body loses its canker.

"I truly am sorry," she says with a tone of finality, "but it is better that you die than I."

Her mother's next words are shredded and raspy, but she's pleading, not for her life but for her daughter's soul.

(She fights the urge to laugh, as her soul is the first part of her that had rotted away.)

" _Lucy."_


	15. -Scorpius-

"If we fall, take him and run, as far and as fast as you can," he says, lower lip trembling as he hands the toddler to his father.

Draco Malfoy looks far older than his fifty-five years, and before Scorpius' eyes, the man seems to age a decade within the span of an hour. His father has lived through two wars, but he can't ask the man to fight in the third, not when Astoria and Cassiopeia are both standing with the rebels.

All he can do is entrust his son's safety to his aging father, knowing that he would kill, and die, for Orion in a heartbeat.

"You don't have to go, Scorpius," his father pleads, and never before has he heard the venerable Malfoy patriarch beg. Despite his father's urging, he cannot stand idly by, not now.

Rose is on the battlefield.

And he owes her pain.

He presses a final kiss to his son's brow, and hugs his father, nearly squishing the boy between them. Then he's gone, swallowed by the suffocating darkness of Apparition.

When he reaches the Ministry, it's chaotic, the entire building crumbling around him as dozens of duels are being fought. Bloody howls and feral shrieks rip the air, and the Atrium buckles beneath the raging crescendos of magic.

Albus is there, upon the dais, dueling Harry with a ferocity that he's never witnessed before. Father and son circle each other, curses flying from their wands, and it's painfully obvious that they're both dueling to kill. Without thinking, Scorpius slashes his wand through the air, releasing a pillar of flame upon the younger Potter, only for the inferno to be blasted aside by another fighter.

Platinum-blonde hair swirling behind her, she strides forward, and raises her wand to his chest.

"You should have stayed home with your brat, Brother," scowls Cassiopeia, her eyes narrowing.

"Stand aside, Cass," he sighs, "I don't want to hurt you."

"That's adorable," she smirks, "Now you leave me no choice."

Their duel is furious, a roaring cacophony of aqua and pyro, jade and amber, jets of light crashing in midair, sending sparks dancing throughout the room. He sidesteps and twirls, moving this way and that, his wand slashing the air.

Then her curse makes contact, and he's hurled through the air, feeling his skin upon his chest crackle and burn under the force of her attack. A dull buzzing fills his head as he's slammed into the wall, crumpling to the ground, blood and pus oozing through the holes in his shirt like some macabre stencil.

The battle still rages on, and he can't see his sister any longer, and with good reason. The room is too chaotic, and there are so many faces that he recognises, even as they lay dying. He struggles to his feet, just as her toneless voice carries through the air, and he takes off in the direction from which it emanated.

Scorpius hurtles over the fallen, their bodies marred by curses and dark magic, till finally he sees her, and it appears as though he's just in time.

Hermione is on her knees, blood dribbling from her nose and ears, and _she_ ' _s_ got her wand trained on the brunette woman. It doesn't seem to affect Rose that she's killing her own mother, or that the bones along Hermione's arms are sticking out of her skin like the quills of a porcupine.

"Avada Kedavra!"

The jet of green light leaves his wand, streaking through the air, and Rose is whirling, wand stabbing the air and blasting his curse to smithereens. Not caring that she's just blocked a curse that cannot be blocked, he engages her, dancing a bloody dance across the floor as they do battle.

Her first curse sends him crashing to the floor.

Blood fills his mouth as he's thrown backward, and then she's beside him, her heel pressing against his throat. He coughs, blood and saliva gurgling from his lips as she raises her wand, ready to whisper the final words.

Scorpius grabs her legs and yanks, and she falls, but before she can recover he's stabbed his wand into her throat, and with a vicious twist, snapped the splintered wood within her.

"Burn in hell, bitch," he coughs, not even seeing her wand move, not realising that he's let his guard down till the Fiendfyre envelops him.

The last words he hears over his piercing screams are hers, and she's grinning like a maniac through the raging, twisting plateau of flames.

" _I'm not going to burn alone."_


	16. -Roxanne-

"Roxy, it's me," he calls from the other side of the door.

She smiles as she wakes from her seat, hurrying to let him in. If he's home it means the battle is over and that they're the victors. She's been waiting all night, and now the dawn is just peaking in through the windows, but at least Lysander's come home at last.

The door slides open as she turns the key in the lock, and she feels her joy turn to ash in her mouth when she sees him. He's identical to her lover, standing in her doorway covered in dried blood, clad in a pair of torn jeans that don't go past his calves. His eyes are amber where Lysander's are blue, and his hair falls in matted locks to his shoulders.

"You're not Lysander," she gasps, stepping away till her back is flush against the counter. Trembling fingers close around her wand, and she raises it to his face.

"Took you long enough, Roxy," giggles Lorcan. Then he lunges, his yellowish claws caked with grime, but he's slashing at empty air. She whirls, dropping to a crouch and throwing out her hand, her palm slapping against his belly and throwing him off balance.

"Where is he?" she shrieks, even though she knows, dammit, she knows that he isn't coming back. Before she can react, his knee catches her in her temple and she finds herself flying across the floor, her wand clattering from her grasp.

"Some of him is in Dominique." Lorcan grins as he advances, licking his lips and contemplating her like one would a juicy steak. "Most of him is at the Ministry, and the rest well . . . it's right here." He pats his lean stomach, and he cackles.

"You monster," she yells, staggering to her feet and grabbing Lysander's knife from the window seat, the silver blade glinting in the rays of the morning sun.

"You say that like it's a bad thing," laughs the werewolf before he pounces, but she pirouettes out of the way, the razor sharp blade hissing across his arm as he regains his footing. Then she flourishes out her hand and they erupt from the ground, sticky, black and dripping with malignity, the tendrils of shadow wrapping around his wrists and ankles and hoisting him into the air.

"Kinky." He winks at her, but she smirks and flexes her wrist, and then the tentacles are cutting into his skin, their sticky bodies sharper than Goblin-Forged Steel.

"You're going to die here," she snarls, her head pounding from the effort of summoning so much darkness to do her bidding.

"You wanna know what my brother said before I killed him?" asks Lorcan, wincing as the tendrils of shadow cut into his flesh, feasting on his blood as they hold him suspended in the air. "He said that you were waiting for him, and that he needed to get back home."

Tears sparkle in her eyes, droplets of liquid crystal running down her cheeks as she clenches her fists, causing the inky tentacles to tighten upon his skin. Her breathing is heavy, but she delights in his agony, because Lysander always tells her that she gives as good as she gets.

"And I told him," spits Lorcan, his spittle tinted scarlet, "That you were going to be waiting for a long time . . . that you were going to be waiting until hell freezes over."

"You bastard," she whispers, her glare intensifying, forcing the tentacles to wind their way up his arms and legs. His skin parts like water as they make their way up his body, and then his eyes fill with pleading as he realises what comes next.

"They're going to slip inside you," Roxanne simpers, running the silver blade across his chest and smirking as he howls with pain. "They're going to cut you open from the inside out, and you're going to be conscious the entire time."

"Roxy . . . please," he shrieks, his amber eyes wide as he writhes in exquisite torment, struggling to escape his dark bonds. He's screaming, and there are footfalls on the steps as his reinforcements arrive, but she just laughs and raises her knife.

The door blasts off its hinges but Roxanne is already falling, the silver hilt sticking out of her heart, her blood trickling across the cold floor and mingling with the growing pool of blood and other visceral fluids beneath Lorcan.

After all, she is the only one who can call the tentacles off . . . and she knows that the others can no doubt force her into doing just that, but only if she's still alive when they to her.


	17. -Rose-

The woman screams, clawing at her skin, gouging open her cheeks. Her body twists, limbs flailing out at odd angles, bones cracking and reforming, and her shrieks are a muted melody to Rose's ears.

Her wand remains trained upon the howling woman, never relenting in her curse, silently waiting for the woman's eyes to roll back in their sockets, for the whites alone to be visible, for her mind to crumble.

"Mercy!" screeched the woman, "Kill me instead, please . . ."

Rose remains unflinching, the woman's pleading falling upon deaf ears, until at last a change comes over the flailing woman. She isn't begging any longer, now she laughs and giggles, seemingly not feeling the pain, rolling in circles and clutching her sides as she's overcome with mirth.

She walks away, nudging aside a dismembered hand with her boot. Slowly, she approaches the atrium, noting that the sounds of fighting are gone.

It is done then, she muses, stepping through the doors, taking silent steps towards the fountain. It's running scarlet, the water thicker than it should be, and from the centre rises a single wooden spike, topped with a still bleeding head, complete with a lighting scar across the brow.

"Rose," exclaims Cassiopeia, a strangely positive strain warbling through her tone. "My brother?"

"His ashes are somewhere on the sixth floor," she replies.

"A shame," declares Albus, coming up beside them, crowned in death and damnation, a brilliant grin etched upon his face."Had he stood with us, he would have been spared."

"He gave me this," she adds, running a finger across the ruined left half of her face, the skin crackling beneath her touch, oozing yellowish pus.

"Madam Phaelynne shall have you fixed up in no time," says Cassiopeia, laughter brimming in her voice. "We are done here, Al, this world is ours. I should like to return to the Chateau, and get out of these bloody clothes." Her gaze is smouldering, her eyes dark with lust, and Albus nods before clapping Rose upon the shoulder.

"The rest of our forces have already pulled out." He nods. "Give my father the cremation he deserves."

With that he takes a hold of his wife and they vanish, disappearing into the corridors of magic and leaving her in the Ministry, now a graveyard piled high with the corpses of the damned. She swirls her wand around her, ignoring the accusing, sightless eyes of Harry Potter, and from the tip bursts flames of demonic proportions.

They fly free, dragons and basilisks, manticores and chimeras, roaring and devouring all that is in their path. Stone melts before their claws, water hissing into steam, bodies turning to ash, all in the blink of an eye.

The flames consume metal and rock, leaping from floor to floor, bringing the Ministry crashing down like one massive pyramid of Exploding Snap cards.

Then she screams, and clutches at her back, the Fiendfyre leaping from her control courtesy of the momentary lapse in concentration. Her fingers trail across her spine, till at last they close around the cool hilt of the blade buried within, and her eyes narrow as she whirls.

Hugo shivers, stepping away, emaciated figure more skeletal than the corpses around them.

She advances, and there is no emotion in her as she tears out his heart with her bare hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this Drabble Collection. I must say, I really let myself go nuts with the dark themes xD Thanks to everyone who left kudos, bookmarked this story, or left comments. 
> 
> I'm actually considering writing a prequel that takes place before this, showing the First Rebellion of these characters, and hopefully that one will be published soon. 
> 
> Till next time.
> 
> -Shane Devante

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :)


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